This is a short poem I had on my mind when I woke up, sorry to interrupt my other writing with this (and yes i am still editing future updates along the subject of writing and the journey to understanding ourselves).

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The satin of my pillow is a sad reminder of your gentle touch.
In the darkness I can feel every callous on my hands and I am confused.
I am holding satin smooth as butter but this roughness is new to me after your skin.
It gives me pause to wonder if you were the finest sandpaper,
moulding my fingers to melt into your shape with every soft caress.
Maybe the soft grinding of my fingertips into your flesh is what has carved your way into my body and left a mark on my heart that aches when I hear your name.
Maybe it’s your outer coarseness that let me feel just how soft your inner tenderness was.
But for now I’m just here;
lying alone in the dark, stroking my satin…hurting for you.

CW

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where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.